


Flutter

by Anyawen



Series: beekeeper q [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 007 Fest 2020, Betting Pool, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Not a Party, Retirement, alcohol snobbery, pub night, team00
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:01:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25269523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/pseuds/Anyawen
Summary: Bets are made at M's not-a-party retirement gathering.Follows the events of '[not] strictly official', which has apparently been absorbed into the 'beekeeper q' 'verse.
Relationships: James Bond & Q
Series: beekeeper q [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1810954
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54





	Flutter

**Author's Note:**

> Fills 2017 anon fest prompt “Everyone thinks it's Eve running the betting pools, but actually it's [someone else]” and the 2020 fest trope table prompt “Betting Pool”.

M had refused a retirement party of any kind, but had allowed herself to be ‘kidnapped’ by 007 after her last day as the head of MI6, four and a half weeks after the events at Skyfall. It was no surprise that they ended up at a quiet pub with Tanner, Moneypenny, and Q. They spent the evening exchanging stories, including wonderfully droll anecdotes about M’s dealings with various politicians, and tales both more sober and thrilling from her time as a field agent. 

After a couple hours, and a couple rounds of drinks, the conversation shifted to what M planned to do in retirement. The suggestions around the table were becoming increasingly absurd.

“Might become a bartender,” M said, gesturing at the bar where Bond was ordering their next round, clearly flirting with the woman serving the drinks.

“You’re supposed to be leaving the spy business behind, not embracing new ways to gather information,” Eve protested with a laugh.

“You’d only ever serve whisky, no matter what your customers ordered,” Q said, raising his own glass to sip at the amber liquid.

“Quite right,” M agreed. “But not that rubbish you’re drinking. Really, Q.”

“Yes, ‘really, Q’,” Bond said, returning with a pint of bitter for Tanner, a glass of whisky for M, and some fruity green cocktail for Eve. “That swill is hardly worthy to be called whisky at all.”

“Yes, well. Some of us have mouths to feed and a mortgage to pay,” Q replied, “so we make do with lesser spirits.”

“Blasphemy,” Bond replied, smiling, before taking a swallow of his own whisky.

Q rolled his eyes and turned to M and Moneypenny, asking about potential security upgrades to the cottage M had purchased in Oxford. Bond just smiled until Tanner cleared his throat.

“So,” Tanner said to Bond. “Pyjamas,” 

“What about them?” Bond asked. His expression was polite curiosity, and his tone almost bored, but Tanner caught the glimmer of mischief in Bond’s eyes at Q’s quick inhalation at the overheard inquiry.

“You tell me.”

Bond shrugged with a studied indifference that did nothing to mask his amusement.

“What’s to tell?” he asked. “Q wears them. I don’t.”

Q’s glass thunked down on the table, tipping over and spilling the last of his whisky across the table. M and Moneypenny were quick to mop it up while Q spluttered and choked. 

“I’d have thought it best used as a paint stripper, but I guess using it to degrease the table works as well,” Bond commented as Q managed to get his coughing under control. “I knew you weren’t old enough to drink, Q.”

“I am thirty one years old, you antique bastard. And you owe me a drink,” Q replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“How do you figure?” Bond asked, already pushing his chair back to stand and head back to the bar. Q rose and slid around Tanner’s chair, only a step behind Bond, his answer lost to the ambient noise of the pub as they left their companions behind.

Tanner turned to face M and Moneypenny as they watched the two men easily maneuver together through the crowd to the bar. He raised an eyebrow.

“I give it four months, tops,” M said, sipping her whisky.

“Fraternizing is against the rules,” Moneypenny protested.

“Not my problem anymore,” M said with a shrug. “And if Mallory has a brain in his head, he’ll allow it - even actively encourage it. Q could be a stabilizing influence on Bond.”

“Or Bond might be a chaotic influence on Q.”

“Q can hold his own,” M replied. “Even against Bond.”

Tanner turned back to look at the two men at the bar.

“Yes, I think he can,” Tanner agreed.

“Bond will break before Q does,” M said. “Four months.”

“Twenty quid says they’ll be shagging inside four weeks,” Moneypenny replied.

“Twenty-five says they’ve already shagged - look at them,” Tanner said, then continued, “but I’m with M on four months.”

“For what, if not shagging?” Moneypenny asked.

“Changing their next-of-kin designations.”

“Hmm, no,” M said with a shake of her head. “That will come first. Six or seven weeks. Eight at the outside.”

“Before shagging?” Moneypenny asked in disbelief.

“Yes. Fifty pounds on it.”

“Ma’am?” Tanner asked, surprised but pulling a notebook out of his inside jacket pocket. “You’ve never joined the betting pools before.”

“Wasn’t appropriate,” she responded. “Now I can do what I like. They’re Mallory’s problem. But I still say four months before Bond breaks, and that will come after one or both of them changes their paperwork.”

“All right,” Tanner said with a nod. “Bets are in, then.”

* * *

“You did that on purpose, you bastard,” Q accused.

“I did,” Bond replied with an impudent grin before he turned to the bartender and ordered a pair of whiskies of far higher quality and price than the one Q had spilled.

“Look at them,” Q murmured, glancing back to the table, where Eve was motioning to Tanner to slide into Q’s vacated seat so the three of them could chat more easily. The topic of their conversation was not difficult to guess. “How big do you think the bet will be?”

“You know about the MI6 betting pools?”

“In what universe would I not know?” Q responded, turning back to Bond, eyebrows raised in surprise. “I’ve got bets in several of them. One in particular I stand to win enough to keep the girls in cat kibble for a year - the premium stuff, mind you, not any of that cheap rubbish.” His lips quirked up in a smirk as he continued, “Don’t disappoint me.”

“You bet on me? To do what?”

“Of course I did, and that would be telling,” Q replied with a smile.

The bartender returned with their drinks and Bond handed the second glass to Q. He made no move to return to the table.

“Do you know what she said to me?” he asked, leaning on the bar, angled to face Q.

“A little more specificity would be grand, Bond.”

“M, when she saw your blinking messages at Skyfall. She was sitting at the table building surprises for Silva’s men when she saw the laser pointer start blinking. Transcribed the morse until I got there, then shoved the paper at me, demanding to know just when I’d managed to bed her new Quartermaster, given I’d only been back a day before being sent out to Shanghai. I told her that even I don’t work that fast.”

Q, who had been about to sip at his whisky, put it back on the bar quickly, but carefully enough not to spill it. He glared up at Bond.

“Are you trying to make me wear this one?”

“That would be a waste of good whisky, and making you wear things seems counterproductive,” Bond replied with an unrepentant grin.

“Is your flirting for my benefit, or theirs?” Q asked, tipping his head toward the table.

“Yes,” Bond responded. “And you should be prepared for more of it.”

Q rolled his eyes, knowing he was blushing but ignoring it to pick up his whisky for a sip. He closed his eyes and groaned as the flavor hit his tongue, ignoring Bond’s dark chuckle.

“Feel free to continue flirting with whisky,” Q said. “This whisky will get you everywhere.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Right. Well, shall we get back to them before they wager more than they can lose?”

“Tanner won’t let them lose their shirts,” Bond answered, stepping back to let Q precede him.

Neither Q, nor their seated companions missed the way Bond kept his hand at the small of Q’s back as they returned to the table.


End file.
